


didn't mean to leaf you behind

by grimdarkfandango, Ponderosa (ponderosa121)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Excessive Drinking, Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Golden Girls References, Happy Ending, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Humor, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Accidents, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Oops, Other, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 18:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20511734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimdarkfandango/pseuds/grimdarkfandango, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: “A Dear John letter!” Crowley was telling him, voice slurring. “Can you believe that? The nerve. Six-thoussssand years and that’s how it ends?”They’d moved to the sofa, Aziraphale’s pot tucked into the crook of Crowley’s arm as he sprawled across it with one leg up over the back cushions. Every so often a bit of good scotch splashed onto Aziraphale’s leaves. Not as enjoyable to drink as a plant, it turned out.[Another fill for the GO Kink Meme prompt: Aziraphale accidentally turns into a plant and Crowley adopts him.]





	didn't mean to leaf you behind

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Я не хочу тебя терять](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25483120) by [fandom Tennant and Sheen 2020 (fandom_Tennant_Sheen_2020)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_Tennant_Sheen_2020/pseuds/fandom%20Tennant%20and%20Sheen%202020), [Fannni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fannni/pseuds/Fannni)

> Second fill for the same prompt on the [Good Omens Kink Meme](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/). Surprise, two cakes! Thanks for an amazing prompt, OP.

Several crumpled up pieces of letter paper littered Aziraphale’s desk. If one smoothed them out and could decipher the smeared ink of Aziraphale’s handwriting, they read, in order of least to most crumpled:

> <strike>_I don’t know how to begin to tell you_</strike>  
_We’ve known one another for so long it breaks my heart to tell you I must leave_  
_We’ve grown so close, so there’s no good way to say_  
_I’m afraid there’s no pussy-footing around: Despite our many years of fine companionship, I must part ways with you immediately_  


The latest attempt still fresh on the blotter was yet to be balled up and neatly spelled out the following note:

> I am no longer in need of your services and would like to formally end our arrangement. It is with a heavy heart that I bid you farewell and thank you for the many years of fine companionship and excellent conversation.
> 
> I remain yours as always

Aziraphale paused before signing his name. After switching barbers every twenty years for the last few millennia he would have thought it’d be easy by now to write a note like this, but the longer he stayed in a single city, the more difficult it became. Not in the least because he was a creature of habit and tended to rotate between three shops, who over time had started up a sort of rivalry around who was presently tending to the Fell “family line”.

Maybe he could put the change off for a few more years. Cosmetic surgery and the latest skin care regimens meant one could retain a youthful glow longer than ever. Perhaps he didn't quite yet need to worry about fending off the sorts of questions that required more than little white lies to avoid. He put the cap back on his pen and leaned back in his chair thoughtfully.

Was it a Bad thing that he detested certain kinds of change? He was adventurous in many ways, he thought. He’d just always been swift to find favorites. Like his form. He’d maintained it in generally the same shape as he’d first willed it: comfortable and soft in all the right places. It wasn’t how God had created him, but once She’d settled on the form of Man as her own personal favorite, he’d needed _hands_ to hold that ridiculous fiery sword.

Aziraphale looked down at his hands and tried to remember what it had been like to not have them. Crowley hadn’t seemed to mind much early on, but hands were such convenient things. Well, the fingers were, Aziraphale supposed, giving them a wiggle. If he’d opted for a different form, it probably wouldn’t even have fingers. He very seriously doubted his divine essence would choose to be a monkey (too excitable) or something like a raccoon (too bandity). Although.... He frowned, suddenly taken by the curiosity of what his form _would_ be if he simply let it reshape itself? The possibilities were infinite!

Would he turn into a cat? Many a good bookshop had a cat around. Perhaps a nice plump pigeon with beautiful spotted plumage on its breast. Or--wouldn’t it be a surprise to Crowley if somehow Aziraphale’s form settled into something sleek and serpentine?

He chuckled to himself and tried to dismiss the idea, but it hung around, clinging to the back of his mind until he could think about little else. What would it hurt, giving it a try? And on top of things, it’d go to show that he wasn’t entirely stuck in his ways….

His checked his pocket watch and hummed in thought. Crowley wasn't due to pick him up for dinner for at least another three hours, surely plenty of time to experiment. He gave a little wriggle of excitement, the idea rather thrilling now that he'd settled on it. He patted his thighs and sat up straight, closing his eyes. He'd asked Crowley once what it was like to pick a form and how he’d done it, but all Crowley had been able to explain was something about feeling out the shape of himself, letting his essence transcend his corporation--it didn't make all that much sense to Aziraphale at the time, and still didn't, but it was all he had to go on.

Aziraphale concentrated, reached within himself, and let his corporation translate the shape he found there.

_Ah. Bugger._

*

Three and a half hours later Aziraphale had not yet figured out how to transform back. He was trying another approach when there came a knock at the door, followed by a second, followed by a muffled swear as the door popped itself open and Crowley stalked in.

"Hurry up Aziraphale or we'll be late! If we miss the starting course it'll be your own fault and I won't listen to you complain about it!"

Aziraphale pulled himself up, indignant. As if Crowley couldn't pull a demonic miracle and ensure they arrived exactly as intended, really.

He opened his mouth to say as much, only--he couldn't.

Crowley walked straight past Aziraphale’s desk and past Aziraphale himself, frowning now as he stuck his head into the back room, searching around the shop with increasing concern in his voice. "Aziraphale? Angel? Where the bless are you?"

He eventually circled back around to the desk, sniffing the air for signs of miracles.

"What in G-- Sa-- Someone's sake is _that?_"

Crowley stared down at the chair where Aziraphale sat, glasses slipping down his nose to expose wide yellow eyes. Aziraphale sighed with relief, or would have if he knew how. Instead what came out was a faint, fond rustling.

Crowley reached a hand down and Aziraphale strained to catch it as it sailed right over his head to pick up the letter abandoned on the desk.

_Oh no. Oh no no no._

Crowley furrowed his brow as he read through it, then again, looked at the chair where Aziraphale was desperately trying to get his attention, then back at the letter.

"You've gone. You've left me with a fucking farewell letter and a _PLANT_?!”

Aziraphale rustled his broadest leaves in apology, but reading through the crumpled prior attempts one by one, Crowley didn't seem to be able to hear him at all.

This had gone considerably worse than expected.

Aziraphale expected there might be some more yelling, and maybe some light property damage after Crowley's initial outburst, but instead he straightened and stood silent for a few minutes, Adam's apple bobbing and hands shaking before wordlessly scooping up what had become of Aziraphale and stalking out to the Bentley. The reflective windows of the car let Aziraphale finally see what his experiment had wrought. He was rather handsome, actually--large silvery leaves covered with a soft-looking down, seated in a pale blue ceramic pot wrapped in a familiar tartan bow tie.

On the drive Aziraphale nearly unsoiled himself. Crowley sped, as usual, and being unable to brace himself against the door, Aziraphale was at the mercy of gravity. His roots had gone tense and his leaves drew as tight to their stalks as possible as he was tipped this way and that, and if he’d had a central nervous system, he was certain he’d be nauseatingly dizzy.

What a relief it was then to be cradled in Crowley’s arms once again and carried inside. Aziraphale had only been in Crowley’s flat the once, when he’d assumed Crowley’s form. Why, he wondered, had _that_ been so simple to change back from and this so difficult? The place seemed different from a more vegetal perspective. A great deal larger, for one.

_Oh, don’t put me down here,_ Aziraphale tried desperately to say as Crowley seemed ready to leave him with all the other plants. It was a reasonable location given that Crowley didn’t seem to realize that Aziraphale was...Aziraphale, but how could he hope to convince Crowley he wasn’t a plant if he was abandoned here. No offense to the others.

They rustled slightly and Aziraphale considered that _they_ might understand him when Crowley abruptly changed his mind and carried him to the kitchen and sat him on the counter.

“For fuck’s sake, you don’t even match the rest,” Crowley said, nose crinkling and lips peeling away from his teeth. “What was Aziraphale thinking? You’re so blessedly, so--so plump and soft.” He groaned miserably.

“And that bow. Awful! Did he get that made special?” Crowley made as if to tear it off, but couldn’t seem to bring himself to undo the bow. “Fluffy leaves, all silvery and bright. Of course the angel would like you.”

Aziraphale could hardly understand what the problem was. Matching everything was boring. Crowley was fashionable enough to know that you couldn’t dress head to toe in a single color without at least a scarf to draw the eye. Aziraphale was obviously a statement plant.

“Well, I don’t like you,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale wilted slightly. He hoped it wasn’t true.

“No drooping! I will NOT tolerate drooping,” Crowley said, and then proceeded to mist him while making an awful choking noise that after some time Aziraphale realized was the sound of grief.

Over the next six hours, Crowley’s ugly crying turned into drunken crying turned into drunken shouting, and then ugly, drunken crying to bebop tunes.

“A Dear John letter!” Crowley was telling him, voice slurring. “Can you believe that? The nerve. Six-thoussssand years and that’s how it ends?”

They’d moved to the sofa, Aziraphale’s pot tucked into the crook of Crowley’s arm as he sprawled across it with one leg up over the back cushions. Every so often a bit of good scotch splashed onto Aziraphale’s leaves. Not as enjoyable to drink as a plant, it turned out.

“Wh- what if I’d shown up earlier. Maybe I could’ve convinced him to stay.” Crowley gestured wildly, then sang along to some particularly morose lyrics before crumbling into quiet shaking that Aziraphale recognized as a new phase of sobbing.

He tried everything he could think of to broadcast to Crowley _“I’m here! It’s me! This is all a big misunderstanding and of course I’d never leave you like that!”_ up to and including gently tapping it out in morse code, but even if Crowley hadn’t destroyed two bottles of whisky already, he wasn’t convinced it would’ve worked. Being a plant was terribly inconvenient.

Also boring. As nice as it was to have Crowley fall asleep practically wrapped around him, Aziraphale couldn’t return the embrace, let alone keep himself occupied. Normally he’d read a book to pass the hours, or do a bit of knitting, or go on a late night stroll and pop into an all-hours place to people watch or perform a minor blessing. Now, the only option seemed to be to let his leaves curl up a bit and lie dormant until morning.

For the first time in a hundred years or so, Aziraphale had absolutely nothing better to do than sleep.

*

Aziraphale arose to gentle rays of sun floating in through the atrium skylight. He slowly stretched his leaves out to soak them up, and deep in his soil his roots curled in delight. What a wonderful process, he thought, drinking in the sun and the air and the nutrients around him.

He could feel the other plants stirring. They were _talking_, whispering amongst themselves in a language he couldn’t understand; he barely remembered French these days, he was hardly prepared to decipher entirely new modes of communication. He tried to wave a friendly hello with a friendly wiggle of his leaves, but their whispering only grew more intense. His most outstretched leaf drew itself back.

The shiver of the other plants was not a pleasant ripple of a breeze; it felt distinctly like a warning. Oh, he realized, when the razor edges of a shadow cut around the corner down the hall and they all went still and silent, it very much _was_ a warning. What could they possibly need to be afraid of in Crowley’s flat? Could it be that Hell had sent an emissary to check up on its erstwhile demon?

Aziraphale fluffed up his leaves to signal to the other plants that whatever it was coming around the corner, he’d protect them from it. Somehow.

_Crowley!_ Oh, but it was only Crowley. Aziraphale bounced merrily at the sight of him and rustled in excitement at the others. Crowley looked in much better shape than last night, and he had a plant mister full of delicious water in hand. _He’s come to check on me! Us!_

In stark opposition to the delight he was feeling, the air felt clogged with the acrid stench of fear radiating from the other plants.

A scowl firmly set in place, Crowley began his rounds of the atrium, misting and inspecting as he went. Aziraphale watched with growing unease as he snapped and snarled at the other plants, who seemed to have given up talking among themselves to quake in fear, punctuated by what he could only describe as the occasional scream.

“Tch. What exactly do you think you’re playing at, hmm?” Crowley was flicking at a leaf on a rather handsome fiddle-leaf fig that was doing its best to straighten out an unwelcome curl. He rounded on the rest of the garden, pointing accusingly.

“You are all DISAPPOINTMENTS! You’d better keep in line or I will leave you to ROT you pathetic excuses for organisms. Without me you are NOTHING, I am the ONLY thing you have to fear and oh, you should fear me. If I don’t have use for you then there is no reason to keep you around so GROW. BETTER.”

Crowley wasn’t meant to be the nice one, but the venom and anger in his voice was more than Aziraphale had ever heard from him, not in all the years they’d known each other. Rather than make him quake with fear as the rest of the garden was, Aziraphale felt his leaves droop a little in sorrow. _Oh my dear, is this truly what you think of me? A useless disappointment?_

The fiddle-leaf fig, thoroughly chastised, presented its leaf now free of curl that seemed to pass Crowley’s inspection, earning it a spray from the mister and freedom from Crowley’s vicious gaze. Hellfire hot, it found a new target in Aziraphale’s sadly wilting leaves.

Crowley frowned at him, lifting a broad leaf with a fingertip to inspect the soil beneath. Aziraphale was fairly sure plants didn’t blush, but he couldn’t resist leaning his leaf into the touch as Crowley stroked his soft downy texture. He leaned forward to whisper to Aziraphale, letting a leaf bump gently across his cheek.

“Don’t think you’re exempt from this just because you were a _gift_. If I see you drooping again it’ll be the garbage disposal for you, got that?” He punctuated his threat with a few sprays from the plant mister, gave one final glance across the garden, and stormed out.

Aziraphale’s stem still tingled from the brief brush of his leaf against Crowley’s cheek, but after a moment he shook it away to focus on more important things. He turned his attention to the others. _Does he always speak to you all this way?_

*

While Aziraphale didn't exactly speak the language and couldn't understand the nuances, the washes of feeling he received as he communicated with the other plants let him follow the gist of things. As an angel he was particularly attuned to feeling love, as well as fear and doubt--he could hardly do his job otherwise.

They feared Crowley down to their roots. His was a presence that inspired terror, an old testament god of wrath punishing the disbelievers who did not live up to his standards. Shameful, considering Crowley’s feelings on the whole fire and brimstone approach. Aziraphale bristled at the thought and did his best to reassure the doubtful garden.

_Things are going to change around here, just you watch. If there's one thing I have experience with it's guarding gardens!_

He didn't bother mentioning how well that had gone or who, exactly, caused his downfall.

Each day Crowley appeared wielding the plant mister, stalking through the garden reviewing his subjects' growth. He spat insults and screamed blue murder, and the plants shook and strained to grow taller, bigger, faster.

Aziraphale watched. He puffed up and planted himself in the stream of Crowley's anger and refused to be swayed. For each insult, each bitter curse, he retaliated with his own small blessing, his own soft feelings radiating warmth in counterpoint.

"You absolute useless wastes of space!"  
_"You are worth so much, my dear."_

"You pathetic excuse for a plant, I have STANDARDS and you need to LOOK BETTER!"  
_"You can only be what you are and what you are is_ beautiful."

"You think you're not replaceable? You think I won't cast you out?!"  
_"Nobody could ever replace you. You always have a place with me."_

Each day Crowley finished his tour with Aziraphale, cutting off the string of insults to gently dampen his soil and stroke softly along his leaves. Aziraphale let his love and warmth stretch out, gently running leaves over long fingers as he whispered apologies and sweet words.  
_"Oh my dear, I'm so sorry. I never meant to leave you."_

On the fifth day Crowley looked quizzically at Aziraphale, reaching up to carefully inspect a new shoot stretching towards him from the silvery mass of Aziraphale’s leaves. "Hmm. Didn't know this breed flowered.” He twisted to scowl at the rest of the plants. “Do you see? This one knows how to appreciate a bit of Miracle-Gro. You lot don’t DESERVE the GOOD STUFF."

After a week or so, Crowley seemed to be less sorrowful at his “absence.” There was measurably less crying and dreadfully sad music floating in from the other room. He’d since progressed to an endless stream of comedy television programmes to accompany his drinking. At least it gave Aziraphale something to listen to in the dark of night when the rest of the plants lay dormant.

> _“Oh come on, Blanche, this is all your own fault…. You’ve been dating him for six weeks, and the moment it looked like you were making some sort of commitment you dumped him. It’s like six weeks is your cutoff point.”_

The volume dropped and there was the clink of a glass and the sound of leather sliding on leather before Crowley’s whisper of a silhouette appeared at the entrance to the atrium. A near empty bottle dangled from his fingertips as he sipped from his glass. “Was six-thousand years your cutoff point?” he asked the darkness. “Did I push you too hard?”

> _“...You were getting along great. You seemed to like each other. You had a wonderful time together.”_

“We were. We did. I thought so anyway.”

> _“I don’t want to talk about it. Besides, Stephen just didn’t have all the qualities I look for in a man.”_

“Did I not have all the qualities you look for in a…,” Crowley glanced down at himself. “Well, not exactly a man, but you understand.”

> _“Hi girls, I feel so terrific! It’s like life is a great big weenie roast and I’m the biggest weenie!”_

Crowley sloshed more whisky into his glass and downed it in a gulp. He twisted, his back pressing to the wall. “Oh, Aziraphale, you made _me_ the biggest weenie. Why did you leave me, angel?”

> _“...Rose, you’re even more relentlessly cheerful than usual.”_
> 
> _“Thank you! It’s because I’ve joined this group and they teach you to use positive thinking to bring health and success and love into your life--”_

Crowley made an anguished sound and snapped and the television clicked off. He slid down the wall and reached out to stroke the rim of Aziraphale’s pot. “Come back to me, please.”

_I’m trying._ Aziraphale rustled softly, but the closest he got was forming a bud as Crowley stroked his leaves and spent the rest of the night beside him.

*

By the time the other plants were rousing from their nightly slumber, Crowley was gone. How nice it would’ve been if the rest could’ve seen that side of him. Still, with each passing day Aziraphale felt he was getting somewhere. Heading into a new week the garden around him was shaking less and less with comforting words counteracting harm, and some of the braver plants were beginning to let loose a little, stretching their stems and growing in ways less about conforming to what they were told they should look like, and reaching more for what they really needed: sun, water, company.

He could also feel his own flowers blossoming in pride, and he couldn't wait to show Crowley.

The front door of the apartment slammed to announce Crowley’s return. Aziraphale had deduced from Crowley’s drunken evening wailing that he had been spending much of his waking hours searching for sign of Aziraphale and taking care of the bookshop in his absence, a thoughtfulness that filled Aziraphale's heart near to bursting.

Today the ripple of fear that accompanied Crowley's appearance waned quickly, Aziraphale’s fellow plants cautious but no longer moved to paralyzed terror the way they had been.

Crowley frowned at his reception, eyes narrowing at the evidence of insubordination. His grip tightening to white around the plant mister. "Do you think this is a _game_? That I allow you to live here out of the goodness of my heart? Do you think I do this for your AMUSEMENT? I AM NOT TO BE DISOBEYED. I DON’T HAVE A HEART."

He snatched up a small pothos, whose lee-side leaves were yellowing slightly after having gotten excitable and caught a bit too much afternoon sun.

"Remember this you pathetic excuses for foliage, remember what happens when you don't DO. BETTER."

He waved the small plant towards the rest as he sauntered out of the room.

"Say goodbye to your friend here.” 

The terror was back, redoubled as the whole atrium shook with screams of loss, nearly drowning out the sound of the garbage disposal whirring. Aziraphale was shaking as well, but not from fear. Aziraphale was furious.

_How could you! How could you throw out something living just for doing what it does naturally, how could you not see it needs your love not your punishment!_

Crowley re-entered the room, small dirt-crusted pot dangling from his fingertip.

“You'll join them soon if you keep that up."

“No they will **NOT!"**

The pot clattered to the floor and Aziraphale kicked it away. He curled his fingers--blessed, useful fingers--in the front of Crowley’s jacket and drove him across the room and up against the wall hard enough to make the skylight rattle and his sunglasses fall askew. “You will do no such thing, Crowley. You can’t. I won’t permit it!”

Crowley’s mouth hung open and he moved it a bit as if to speak but nothing resembling a word came out, just a faint thin squeaking like a balloon losing air.

Aziraphale gave him a shake, albeit a little less firm than the last. A light shower of small white flower petals fell from Aziraphale’s hair to dust Crowley’s dark jacket. “These plants are my friends. They’d be yours too, if only you’d let them, you-- you-- you silly demon.”

Point made, he thought he might step away, but his legs failed to work as if he’d been rooted to the spot all over again. Aziraphale glanced down, but he still (thank Goodness) very much had legs, though they were pressed thigh to thigh against Crowley’s. “I, um…. I’m sorry I shoved you,” he said, gently disengaging his hands from the lapels of Crowley’s coat and patting them flat.

“That makes one of us,” Crowley murmured. He didn’t make a move, but his gaze slid past Aziraphale’s shoulder to the scatter of potting soil and petals leading away from the place where Aziraphale had sat for the past few weeks. He groaned and put a hand to his forehead. “Oh, I should’ve known. Turned yourself into a plant, Aziraphale? There are easier ways to keep the shop closed, you know.”

“It was an accident.”

“Couldn’t figure out how to turn back, could you. Now you understand why I don’t do the snake thing anymore. Hands: ever so useful. Well, fingers really. _Thumbs._”

“It’d been easy enough to stop being _you-shaped,_ I didn’t think I’d get stuck as a plant in your flat for weeks on end!”

Crowley’s head tipped to the side and his eyes narrowed. His nose was very near to bumping into Aziraphale’s as he hissed: “But you did, and you fomented a revolution againssst me.”

“For good reason. That poor pothos,” Aziraphale said, managing now to put some distance between himself and Crowley. He rounded on his heel towards the kitchen. “Maybe there’s enough of it left to propagate.”

“You don’t--,” Crowley followed hot on his heels, stammering and flustered. “Angel, wait. Let me explain before you-- Oh, fuck.”

Aziraphale blinked at the small pothos sitting on the kitchen counter, its leaves shaking but whole. Crowley brought himself up short of crashing into the back of him, but Aziraphale could feel hot breath skate across his cheek as Crowley hissed a whisper in his ear.

“If you tell any of the rest of them I swear I’ll toss them all out the window for real.”

“You didn’t do it. Oh, Crowley...”

Crowley slid back a step as Aziraphale turned to face him, eyes filled with wonder and the very edge of tears.

“Oh no don’t you start blubbering, this is not-- this doesn’t mean anythi--!”

Aziraphale couldn’t restrain himself and surged forward, cutting Crowley’s objection off with hands cradling his face and by planting a firm, reassuring kiss on him that drove him back up against the wall a second time.

“My dear, you _do_ have a heart.”

Crowley’s mouth opened and closed, words failing for the second time in as many minutes. He’d gone weak in the knees and only the bit of wall and Aziraphale pressed close to his front kept him upright.

“Ffft. Don’t. I’m--”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale said, caressing his cheek. He swept his thumb across Crowley’s slack mouth and kissed him again, more softly. Crowley went even more boneless (most of him anyway).

“Also a bit cruel only treating the plants nicely after they’ve disobeyed you,” Aziraphale added, then considered the weight of his words. “Ah, I see.”

“Who says I treat them nicely at any point?” Crowley hedged, ignoring the implication. His eyes narrowed. “It would’ve clogged the disposal and is going straight into the bin.”

“You’re telling me that darling little pothos is going into the bin. You’ve put it into a bigger pot and it’s got a ribbon on.”

“Fine, not the bin, but the ribbon is there because I’m giving it away. To my neighbor. As if I’d keep the little traitor.”

“You’re usually much better at lying, Crowley.”

“I’m a little distracted!”

“Oh, yes, sorry. I’ve just spent all week flowering, I’m a little...worked up.” 

_“You’re_ worked up.”

Aziraphale wasn’t bursting and heavy with pollen any longer, but he was definitely still in a bit of a mood. Certainly Crowley could feel it, pressed again as they were, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. “You spent so much time stroking me!”

“You were all fuzzy and soft! And what I thought was a parting gift with that bloody letter, which by the way, you need to explain.”

“Oh don’t be silly that letter wasn’t meant for you, it was for my barber. It’s dreadfully hard to instigate change, I have a tendency to, ah, put down roots as it were.”

Aziraphale’s thumb stroked soft circles under Crowley’s jaw, fingers bracketing his head.

“Puns, really.” Crowley made a face and rolled his eyes. “Next you’ll be making cracks about being deflowered.”

“Well I was deflowered! Quite literally! As to the other more euphemistic sense of the word...,” Aziraphale trailed off and looked down meaningfully. “As you have all the qualities in a partner I could ever want, Crowley, if you aren’t um, _opposed,_ the night’s still young.”

Suffice it to say, Crowley was most definitely not opposed.

*

“Don’t you start,” Aziraphale said to the pothos, who had taken nicely to its new home perched atop a high shelf in his bookshop. It had grown to run the whole length of the wall and rustled slyly whenever it could feel the rumble of the Bentley coming down the block. Devil’s ivy, indeed. Saucy plant.

The door banged open and Crowley swaggered in, a picnic basket over his arm. “Let’s go, angel. Before the traffic gets awful.”

“The traffic is never awful enough,” Aziraphale muttered quietly. He tried, oh how he tried, but Crowley still managed to speed through it all. He gathered up his coat.

“Don’t you start,” Crowley said to the pothos, whose trailing vine swiveled to keenly follow Crowley as he swooped in to grab Aziraphale by the waist and kiss him (to plant one on him, if you will). He gave it a glare, but it knew enough now that it didn’t so much as quiver. “Ought to trim you back, you impertinent little sprout.”

Its newest leaf popped out in a distinct rebuke to the idea.

“Do you see?” Crowley said, tugging Aziraphale out of the shop. “Do you see what happens when you let them do whatever they want?”

“Yes love, and how are the others.”

“Leafy. Frondy. Glorioussssly green with envy. Turns out if I pay attention to one more than the others, they try and outgrow one another.”

Baby steps, Aziraphale supposed. It was a start. Perhaps he’d pop by tomorrow and check on them. Or, if Crowley was interested, spend the night at his place again.

“It’s been a few,” Crowley said, holding the door to the Bentley open for Aziraphale. He cast his gaze towards the horizon in a rather blatant attempt to be cool. “You could, maybe come in for a bit this evening and take a look.”

“And stay the night?”

“If you’d like.”

Aziraphale smiled and slipped into the passenger seat, letting Crowley take his place at the wheel before leaning over to surprise him with a kiss on the cheek.

“I do like to change things up a bit now and again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please do yourself a favor and read this blog post about the variety of succulent Aziraphale turns himself into because we both wept laughing at how perfect it was: [The plant that was made for touching: Senecio 'Angel Wings'](https://mrplantgeekshop.com/blogs/plant-geek-recommends/senecio-angel-wings)
> 
> Also, the Golden Girls episode quoted is S5E14, where Rose invites the girls to a seminar called "create your own miracles".

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ты мне даже не нравишься!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25280041) by [fandom Tennant and Sheen 2020 (fandom_Tennant_Sheen_2020)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_Tennant_Sheen_2020/pseuds/fandom%20Tennant%20and%20Sheen%202020)


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